Xuchu Li
Beijing, China

In late autumn’s golden embrace,
scarlet maple leaves softly caress you,
a mild exhaustion sensed,
a months-long struggle persists.
The tumors burgeon and spread like violet flames
upon your withered, skeletal frame—
a desolate scene, frail and lame.
Each breath feeds its growth.
Scalding sweat on your brow,
defiant tears in your eyes, unable to dispel it.
Yet you fight, through dawn and starlit nights.
You grapple, yearning for a phoenix’s flight.
Each shared laugh, each tear with kin,
each burning trial of chemo’s touch,
you see as fresh chances, your spirit’s might,
even as your limbs burn pale, your eyes veiled in mist.
Eventually, the Grim Reaper retrieves the flames,
your heart stops its rhythm.
Surrounded by weeping and lament,
cradled in the golden tongues of a greater blaze,
your form fades to ash.
But with every silent breeze that blows,
the fire’s ashes nourish the earth below.
And you know well,
from the flames rise not only verdant life,
but an unyielding spirit’s endless growth.